Night of the Living Deadpool: Prelude 3

Day 36. 116 pages, 54,871 words.

No, I still didn’t get a chance to write anything today. But that’s alright, because it’s time to leave for the weekend and after that it’s time to take off for my week of winter vacation.

I’m going to try to maintain a bit of a routine, and do some writing every day. At least the blog and the book need attention, but I may not be able to get onto the PC, it will be done by phone. Total word counts may lag or I may just not update them at all, then take a jump on the 21st of Feb.

Mrs. Hatboy is not on vacation (she gets her vacation the week after, which was just brilliant lack of planning), so we’ll have to keep to a routine to get her off to work and the kids delivered to grandma’s. So that’s something.

For tonight, though, it’s Deadpool time!

Photos to come.

Then, tomorrow, it’s time for a special birthday event at Bar Äijä’s. Photos to come.

That’s it for now.

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Night of the Living Deadpool: Prelude 2

Day 35. 114 pages, 53,912 words. Another shitty day yesterday.

Tomorrow, The Movie premieres here in Helsinki. It’s already out in Australia and probably a few other places and I am trying to avoid spoilers, but tomorrow is when we’re seeing it.

deadpool

Due warning.

And, you know, it’s already a classic. So who cares? At this point, the biggest risk is that it will be a bit dull because “seen this bit, saw that bit, know what happens in this bit, there’s still these bits to come.”

Still going to be awesome.

So, for a bit of a change of pace and a minor variation on the Star Wars Episode VII prediction-review I wrote, here are my predictions for how the Deadpool movie is going to go:

 

  • Okay. This won’t be as good as it’s been hyped up to be and as far as expectations have been pumped. It can’t be. It will be better than Green Lantern (although I didn’t see that, I heard a lot about it and I think this will be objectively better), better than R.I.P.D. and better than Deadpool’s appearance in X-Men Origins: Wolverine, but it still won’t be transcendent and amazing.

 

  • That said, I am still going to enjoy the Hell out of it. Ryan Reynolds is Deadpool.

 

  • Wade will talk direct to camera. There’s a lot of expectation about him breaking the fourth wall here, but I don’t think it’s going to be too madly overdone. Just overdone enough.

 

  • There’s a prediction that Stan Lee will be in the movie and that Deadpool will recognise him as Stan Lee. I don’t think that’s feasible given Fox’s ownership and Stan Lee’s rights regarding Deadpool, but never say never. He has been in Fox’s X-Men movies so why not? This would be brilliant but I’m not officially calling it.

 

  • He will make a Monty Python’s Black Knight reference, though. That simply has to be done, considering the damage Deadpool can walk off.

 

  • Related to the above, and possibly in the same scene, Deadpool will lose an entire actual limb and then re-grow it. Taking us beyond Wolverine’s movie appearances and answering that question once and for all.

 

  • Deadpool’s version of the Wolverine Weapon X transformation process is going to be the grisliest thing in this movie. And also hilarious. Grislious.

 

  • We already know that Ajax, Colossus, Negasonic, Weasel and Blind Al are in it. I’m calling that the main man behind the scenes of Deadpool’s creation, Killbrew (or possibly Killebrew, I remain unsure), is going to be an end-of-movie twist that they will save for the sequel, which has apparently already been green-lit.

 

  • There’s going to be a Hellhouse, and Patch. Got to be. I would also accept T-Ray being in there, just to set him up for a sequel-villainhood. I’m not sure if they’ll have the balls to go for the “T-Ray is the real Wade Wilson and Deadpool is actually T-Ray” mind-fuck plot, but it could be fun to see. In this case, though, the trailers have given the impression that Wade’s girlfriend was not killed, and in fact is something of a co-protagonist through the film. This is Vanessa, not Mercedes. Mercedes could also be in the picture, a wife assumed dead before Wade ever meets Vanessa for the purposes of later movies. So. Let’s see.

That’s all for now.

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Night of the Living Deadpool: Prelude 1

Day 34. 113 pages, 53,533 words.

Well shit, didn’t get much done yesterday. What with a pile of day-job work and a lot of messing around trying to order tickets for Deadpool’s opening night (the Finnkino website shut down at 10:00am when they updated their page with ticket ordering links and everyone started clicking at once), I was a bit preoccupied and it played havoc with my writing game.

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Mission accomplished, though.

Then I went into town to pick up the tickets and do a bit more birthday shopping for Mrs. Hatboy. I took Toop with me for the free bus ride.

That was my Tuesday.

Today, writing!

Oops, dang, off to work.

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Character study: Deadflesh

Day 33. 112 pages, 53,104 words.

It was widely agreed that, with the exception of the aki’Drednanth who killed with their minds – and this was a disputed fact so it didn’t really count – there were few sentient beings more dangerous than a Fergunakil alpha. The great shark commanded a school of hundreds, often thousands, and had at its cartilaginous fingertips a raw computing power that rivalled many large-scale synthetic intelligence installations. It was fuelled by an electricity-scorched psychosis capable of terrorising every other Fergunakil in its school, and was the absolute pinnacle of hundreds of millions of years of predatory evolution. Whether male or female, a Fergunakil alpha was smart, and ruthless, and tough, and murderously aggressive.

There was, however, a creature more dangerous. And that was a Fergunakil alpha that had been overthrown, but was still alive.

Almost invariably, the only way a school’s alpha could be replaced by fresh blood was by combat. Awful, threshing, physical and cyber-combat that left the victor almost as shredded as the defeated. An alpha not only had to survive the battle, but also the aftermath – when other Fergunak, proscribed from the contest and yet permitted to prey upon the injured, would churn the bloodied water and feast on anything weak or foolish enough to leave itself exposed. The overwhelming majority of challenges resulted in challenger and defender alike being slain, after which the school remained leaderless until such time as another approach produced an alpha. The Fergunak were an ancient and, despite appearances, highly-developed species, and did not depend entirely on the natural order to decide their societies’ structure.

Of the remaining few cases, the overwhelming majority of challenges resulted in the victor living and the defeated being devoured, whether the incumbent alpha continued its reign or the new challenger took over. In every case, as far back as Fergunakil memory extended – and that was an unknown but presumably vast stretch of time, given the mechanical nature of their minds – if a defending alpha was victorious, the would-be usurper was killed, and eaten.

Sometimes, however, vanishingly rarely, the new challenger would be victorious, but unable to kill the former ruler of the school. Torn, half-eaten, its cybernetic implants mangled and its connection to the school’s gridnet scrambled beyond madness, the old alpha was cast out. And yet, by dint of sheer, awful resolve and toughness, it lived. The new alpha failed to kill it, the scavenging school-members failed to kill it, and the Ocean Goddesses Themselves spat it back into the soft belly of the world.

This was the creature more dangerous than an alpha.

Deadflesh was one such scarred and ancient monster. Overthrown as alpha of the Thousand Cold Fathoms school, he was left drifting in tatters after two marauding beta males had dragged him from the crimson waters of his defeat. He’d killed them both with tooth and raw circuitry and tough, eye-gouging fingers, but had been assumed dead by the rest of the school when his gridnet link flared and vanished in a supernova of white signal. And so he had drifted, for days and then weeks, while his hideously-injured body had rotted and wasted away.

He had lived, though, and had gradually recovered at least some semblance of his bodily functions. He never worked quite properly again, but he could hunt, and feed, and above all, he could think. And very little in the great dry galaxy was as terrible as a thinking Fergunakil.

Painstakingly, unaided and in mind-burning agony, he rebuilt his own cybernetic enhancements almost from scratch. And then he set about finding more of his own kind.

He wasn’t thinking about Fergunak. He had decided that mere Fergunak were lesser beings, unworthy. They were missing something, something important. He hunted on the edges of schools, sometimes eating, sometimes maiming, sometimes dragging away specimens to experiment on. Several schools set out to put an end to him once and for all. They failed. One such school ceased to exist altogether, under circumstances the Fergunak refused to talk about.

Deadflesh became the Fergunakil equivalent of a folk hero, admired and hated in equal measure. It was the closest the great sharks came to the concept of religion, the elemental Goddess-forces of their homeworld notwithstanding. He continued to kill, and continued to linger, and he travelled the length and breadth of Six Species space, and one by one he gathered more of the most dreadful Fergunak in the galaxy around him.

If the Glorious Flawed were a school – which they weren’t – and if they had an alpha – which they didn’t – it would be Deadflesh.

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Interlude: My Weekend, and Stuff What Done Happened During it

Day 32. 109 pages, 51,792 words.

I had a great weekend in general, and a brilliant one for writing. I think the second and third parts of the book are going to go faster since they’re mostly planned out, but I’m halfway to my deadline and I’ve just about finished Part One of Molran. I think that’s about where I was for Blaran at the same point. But let’s see how we go. No real rush.

Sadly, today I am going to be busy and in fact most of this week I am going to be rushed off my feet with assorted preparations. Next week, though, is a week off. Woo!

Had gangs of fun piling wood on Saturday, but unwound with a sauna afterwards. Then on Sunday, I spent a pleasant hour and a half writing on my phone while playing taxi service for Wump’s dance rehearsal. After that, the BRKNs and Bella came around to share a little movie (and a huge pile of food) with us.

The movie, 1989’s Cannibal Women in the Avocado Jungle of Death (or Hyvää ruokahalua! in Finnish), was … really something you should watch for yourself. I’m not going to review it so much here. I will, however, say that Bill Maher has never been funnier and I can’t believe he doesn’t bring this movie up more in conversation.

maher

Not photoshopped. Or even screencapped all that well.

Also, it’s funny to see that the issue of male emasculation-fear and toxic feminism is as pressing and valid today as it was in 1989.

No, seriously. The issue has not actually gotten any closer to – or farther from – a resolution in the past twenty-seven years.

cretak

The movie did, however, star Cretak from Deep Space Nine. Worth watching just for that.

Straight after this movie, amusingly, Mrs. Hatboy and I started to watch season 2 of Agent Carter, which I think is working more solidly than the first season. The amusing part is, in this season she moves to the Los Angeles branch – and the first thing Jarvis warns her about when she arrives? “They eat avocados here.”

The universe is a silly place.

Posted in Hatboy's Movie Extravaganza, Kussa mun hopoti? | Tagged , , , , , , | 9 Comments

The First Feast, Part 28

Day 31. 98 pages, 47,037 words.

Once tempers were settled and displeasures soothed, the little brotherhood of the secret junk-filled warehouse returned to amicability and even managed to chuckle a bit more at the whole regrettable incident. Superstition, Adithol Wren said, was a powerful force on Earth.

He seemed neither embarrassed nor particularly proud of this fact – he might as well have been saying that nitrogen was a dominant gas in the Earth’s atmosphere.

“To us, this is more than just a curse,” he explained. “More than the […], the word unforgivable. It has a meaning and a life. It is a thing of bygone days. And the Þurs have e’er lived it more […] than we ourselves, with our fleeting and […] paltry existence on this good Earth.”

It became clear to Massington, as he numbly ate a third sumptuous golden whatever-cake and nodded and listened earnestly, that even before he’d innocently said “giela”, he’d been wrong-footed with this whole shambolic contact scenario. Which was hardly his fault – he wasn’t trained for this. Still, he was here. And he had started out with a devastatingly erroneous misassumption.

He’d assumed that because the Ogres were comically brutish and rough-spoken, and the humans were just a small step removed from howling and throwing faeces in the treetops, that there was nothing familiar in the two species at all. That both were so very different, so alien, so disconnected from anything in his life experience, there could be no useful unifying traits in either native life-form. And therefore that nothing in his cultural toolbox could possibly be compatible, or applicable.

But there was an important connection. In their own way, the Ogres were at least as revered by the humans as the aki’Drednanth were by the Molren. Yes, the overwhelming majority of human beings had no idea the Ogres existed, but those who did know about them considered them mighty beyond their mere physical strength, and beyond their strange theoretical immortality. And part of that regard lingered in the human cultural consciousness, even if they thought the Ogres themselves were nothing but a children’s tale.

The Þurs had endured on this strange, hostile, impossible world for untold centuries, and they had fought for the lives and the futures of their little human friends in wars that not even the custodians of the warehouse fully remembered anymore. They had saved the world, time and again. Perhaps more than the world.

Big Thundering Bjørn, Fat Tuesday, and their long-gone fellow Ogres had stood, tusks bared and horns lowered, against the Gods Themselves.

Massington wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly, whether it was a cultural shorthand or just pure hyperbolic myth, but he knew it was more than just a story. It was more than his life in the Fleet had prepared him to understand at short notice. And the humans believed it, with exactly the same bright-eyed and unquestioning veneration as the Molren, Blaren and Bonshooni believed the aki’Drednanth had saved the Fleet from the Cancer in the Core.

This wasn’t to say he was sceptical concerning the historical accounts of the aki’Drednanth and Fergunak uprising, led by Mogn Haal and the other great aki’Drednanth rebels. He didn’t question the tale of their defection from the Cancer and their destruction of the Damorakind force that had threatened to annihilate the then-Twin Species. On the contrary, he knew that those stories, while doubtless exaggerated by generation after grateful generation of Molranoids, held a significant kernel of truth. It was, despite the damage and wholesale death that had preceded and followed the last Damorakind wave and the Fleet’s escape, a matter of recorded fact.

And so it was with the Ogres.

The Fleet had arrived here absolutely unprepared for what they’d found, and now that they were here there was no going back. They had gasped their last, and now they had to live with whatever this world, this … this place, deigned to share with them. And while he was arguably meeting with a tiny and obscure subculture here, Massington had a strange feeling that what was within this warehouse – living and otherwise – would prove to be of crucial importance to the future of the Five Species.

He remembered what Mer had told him about the Ogres, how their long lives and regeneration came at the cost of expressiveness and memory. They might never be able to tell him for certain what had happened in the mists of their youth. But who was Massington Karturi to say, with his seventeen years of crawling through the starless void and talking with the machine mind that was his only friend, what constituted history?

Fat Tuesday and Big Thundering Bjørn were history. Embodied. In all its battered, bewildered, unspeakably violent glory.

“What are you thinking, Massington?” Truck asked quietly.

That you can be the one to say ‘Damorakind’ to them, he thought.

“I’m thinking,” he said, “that Big Thundering Bjørn and Fat Tuesday should meet the rest of the aki’Drednanth. And that Adithol, Boriel and Katter should see their world from the window of one of ours.”

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Interlude: Metrics

Day 30. 97 pages, 46,319 words.

We interrupt our weekend of absolutely bugger-all with another lazy set of book-creation metrics for you. Here is where Molran currently stands.

metrics (15)

May need to start a new graph, or cut some of the early books out to make this readable, but so far it still shows up.

As you can see, it’s going well. I should be about halfway through and I’m not there yet in terms of narrative, but I think I will still be able to get it finished under 120,000 words. I’ve been pleased so far at how consistently-sized the books have been, not too much content-swell as the series goes on.

Let’s see what happens next.

The character-point-of-view-by-chapter break-down is a little lopsided right now because, obviously, I’ve only done a few chapters. This one will probably still end up with a bunch of misc POVs because of the direction I intend to take it … but again, we’ll see.

For now, I like this misleading and bizarre look at the book’s characters.

metrics_molran_representation (1)

“You can never have too much Waffa.” – Somebody.

That’s it for today. We’ve got wood-stacking and assort other stuff to do before bedtime.

 

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